


so quite new a thing

by LizzieSiddal



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, First Kiss, The Scene Season 8 Will Probably Not Give Me, too many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 05:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11982915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieSiddal/pseuds/LizzieSiddal
Summary: In which Brienne makes the first move.





	so quite new a thing

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be part of a longer piece, but I never quite managed to finish it. So here I am, releasing the one scene I liked into the wild. It is my first time writing these two - be kind?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soldiers trudge back to the keep, their tortured feet dragging through mud and snow. Brienne’s pace is brisk, determined, her eyes roaming from dirty face to dirty face, hoping to catch a glimpse of gold and silver and flashing green eyes. She pays no heed to the burning and the aching of her muscles after the effort of the fight, but rushes into the keep, until her eyes lock on a figure, breathing heavily but still whole and very much alive.

Relief surges through her. She’s spent years amongst soldiers, and longer still beating men at their own game; she is no stranger to this mad rush that has her body alight after a good fight, and she knows that once it passes she’ll feel as ungainly and graceless as ever. But she finds she does not care for sense nor propriety, not now. She sees him look up, his eyes frantically seeking hers, and before she knows it she’s striding towards him, until she has a hand buried in his dirty golden hair and another gripping his arm, and she’s pressing her lips to his. For a moment he breathes in sharply, but does little else: he doesn’t push her away, nor does he grab her back, but his lean, strong body yields against hers. Their lips part softly, and she could swear she feels him smile against her mouth. She keeps her eyes shut, mortified and desperate to hold on to this a while longer, and she curses the blush that creeps up her neck and leaves her ears burning despite the freezing cold.

“Ser-“ she starts, but it gets her nowhere: his hand is on her cheek, cupping her face with a tenderness she has no defenses against, and excuses die in her throat.

“I apologise,” she blurts out awkwardly. “Someone could have seen and I shouldn’t-“

“Let them watch,” he says, and there’s enough warmth in his tone that she dares meet his eyes. He is smirking, as insolently as he would back when she was her prisoner, but there’s no malice in it, only a look in his eyes she recognizes but dares not name.

He takes a step towards her until there’s no space between them at all. Even through the uncomfortable layers and the heavy armor, she fancies she can feel the warmth of him against her, and her treacherous mind supplies – in lurid detail – what his naked skin had felt like when she’d cradled his body in her arms. “I really don’t care who watches.”

“Jaime-“

“Kiss me again,” he says, tilting his face up to hers. How smug he is, and how absurdly handsome despite everything. They are a mess of dirt and sweat and blood and melted snow and they haven’t had a decent meal and proper rest in weeks, and yet when he smiles up at her he is still, unequivocally, the most handsome man she’s ever known. It’d take a stronger woman to refuse him – Brienne cannot.

They meet in the middle this time; she barely knows what she’s doing, yet it’s easy enough to match him. She would have thought – in the few occasions where she dared imagine _this_ , unlikely as it seemed – that she’d be awkward at it, hopeless. She had feared that her freakish body, unused to any intimacy but the brutal closeness of combat, would not know how to hold and be held – that she’d be too much of a lumbering brute to fit in a man’s warm embrace. But there’s a rhythm to this, she discovers. It’s a rhythm much like sparring, a give and take she can fall into. His right arm is around her, the weight of his golden hand heavy on the small of her waist, and she curls an arm around his shoulders in turn and draws him closer. He nips her lower lip teasingly, his breath warm against her mouth, and her fingers curl into his cloak, then travel upwards, until she is cupping the back of his head in her broad palm. She is half frozen in the places where they are not touching, and burning up everywhere else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from ee cummings, mistakes - alas - are all mine. I wish I had the time - and the talent - to write the epic romance these two deserve. Jaime Lannister should get awkwardly swept off his feet more often, that's all I am saying.


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